Purposes Mistook
by happycabbage75
Summary: Sam and Dean finish a hunt only to find there was a witness to the showdown, a witness who makes a demand of his own...
1. Chapter 1

**Purposes Mistook**

Summary: Sam and Dean finish a hunt only to find there was a witness to the showdown, a witness who makes a demand of his own…

Disclaimer: Kripke and Company own Sam and Dean. And they'd better take good care of them this season finale or _someone_ I know is going to be very, very upset with them.

_The last story was way too long, so this one was purposely written at a run._

**Chapter One**

* * *

_And let me speak to the yet unknowing world  
__How these things came about: so shall you hear  
__Of carnal, bloody, and unnatural acts;  
__Of accidental judgments, casual slaughters;  
__Of deaths put on by cunning and forc'd cause;  
__And, in this upshot, purposes mistook  
__Fall'n on the inventors' heads_

- Hamlet Act V, scene ii

* * *

Dean was in the lead as they moved through the office building, guns at the ready. Sam was behind him, facing backward but with his free hand holding Dean's shirt so they could move in sync even though they weren't looking at each other.

They had blocked all the exits on this floor of the building. The werewolf was here, locked in with them. It was after hours and the offices were empty except for the man they'd been tracking for the last week. He looked like a normal guy right now, but he was a dedicated serial killer who enjoyed murdering no matter what form he was in. He'd just been given claws and teeth as weapons for a few days a month instead of his usual knives.

Dean and then Sam moved into a wide room that was a sea of cubicles. "Oh, you've got to be kidding me," Dean whispered.

"We have to find him, Dean. He'll turn tomorrow night."

Dean didn't bother to answer, just continued to scan the room as they moved, Sam doing the same in the opposite direction in case the man tried to sneak up behind them. It wouldn't be the first time. Sam was working through a nasty concussion thanks to this guy sneaking up on them when they'd run into him two days ago.

As Dean passed cubicle after cubicle, he fought not to swear, loudly and repeatedly. They'd nearly had the guy at his house, but he'd managed to slip past them and make it here. There were just too many places to hide, no doubt the reason the man had chosen to make his last stand at the office. This was his territory and he knew it better than they did.

Dean moved forward, methodically checking the cubicles while Sam watched his back, both of them listening for any sounds that might give away the man's location. Outside the proper phase of the moon, he didn't have any particular advantages other than a highly developed survival instinct and no scruples about killing anyone.

Dean felt his heart bang against his chest at the distinct sound of a revolver's hammer being pulled back. Sam's breathing sped up very slightly and Dean knew he'd heard it too. They both scanned the room trying to find the source, but the faint sound had bounced around too many cubicle walls to be able to tell where it had come from.

Dean began to move forward again, staying lower since he now knew their opponent was armed. He and Sam both swung right at another, much louder noise. It sounded like someone had run into a piece of equipment, a copier or a computer, and knocked it over. Dean broke into a jog and Sam followed, hurrying around one end and into the next row of cubicles before the guy could get away again and hide.

They searched down the row and Dean was about to decide the guy had been too fast for them when he saw a bit of paper flutter to the ground outside the cubicle at the end of the row. Sam stayed in the corridor, poised to go through the cubicle entrance, while Dean quietly snuck into the neighboring cubicle and readied himself to stand on the desk and go up and over.

He looked to Sam who held up a finger to start the countdown. One, two, three…

Sam rounded the opening to the cubicle just as Dean jumped up on the desk and aimed down into it.

"Crap!"

"Holy-"

They simultaneously turned their guns away from a terrified office worker, sitting in his chair with his hands up, looking like he was about to wet himself, not that Dean could blame him. The man was in his early 30s, dark haired and average looking. He was in a shirt and tie, although the tie had been loosened, a typical office worker bee.

Dean jumped down off the desk and came around to stand beside Sam. "Anyone else here?" Dean asked the man in a whisper. They'd just assumed the offices were empty this late and they hadn't seen anyone on the security cameras before they'd shut them down.

The man shook his head, unable to take his eyes from their guns. "N-no. Boss made me stay late to work on the Ph-Philpott account."

Dean rolled his eyes. Corporate America. He didn't know how anybody stayed sane working a job like this. He'd take a shotgun vs. a crazed poltergeist any day of the week over memos and never-ending, useless paperwork.

"Dean, get down!"

Dean dropped to the floor, turning his head in time to see Sam put three rounds in the man who'd been trying to sneak up on them while they were distracted.

It never was like the movies. Even if you shot someone in a place that would kill them, it took a little while for their body to realize it and give up. In the meantime, before the guy realized he was dead, he could still shoot back, which the werewolf did. Thankfully his normal preference was knives and not guns. He was a lousy shot.

Sam refocused his aim while Dean rolled so that he was free to fire as well. It wasn't necessary, however. Sam's next round caught the werewolf in the heart and he finally keeled over.

Dean got to his feet and he and Sam moved forward carefully just in case. There was always the chance he was playing possum. As they got closer though, Dean could see it was a done deal and sighed in relief.

"You shot Marvin."

Sam and Dean both turned to see the other guy had come out of his cubicle and was staring at his fallen co-worker.

"Dean, we should go," Sam urged.

"Right." Witnesses who could identify you were never good. He was in a daze now and wouldn't remember them well, but they were pushing it.

"You shot Marvin!" the man said again, this time his wide eyes glued to Sam.

Marvin. Dean tried not to snort. Marvin wasn't exactly the best name for a fearsome werewolf/serial killer. Dean suppressed the thought though. Sam was still a little twitchy around the werewolf topic and Dean had been making an effort. Mostly. But, really… Marvin?

"If it makes you feel any better," Dean said to the man, "your buddy was a real bastard." He nodded to Sam and they both headed for the exit.

"W-wait…" Sam and Dean both kept walking. "Please, stop!"

Dean turned to look at the man, but kept walking backwards to keep up with Sam. "What?"

"Just, stop. _Please_." The man moved to follow them, fear and reluctance warring with something else Dean couldn't quite place.

"Has this guy got the survival instinct of a goldfish or what?" Dean shook his head in disbelief.

They had to stop momentarily to unbar the exit door to the stairwell and the man caught up with them. "Please, I need-"

"Sir, you need to go back to your desk and call 911," Sam said irritably and Dean's eyes snapped to his brother. Sam's concussion had only exacerbated the normal moodiness and, yeah, the werewolf thing was definitely bothering him now. For Sam's sake, Dean had really been hoping he'd be the one to take the shot, but it just hadn't worked out that way.

The office worker put his hand on Sam's forearm and Sam angrily shook him off. The guy tried to grab him again and Sam aimed his gun at the man, deciding being Mr. Nice Guy wasn't going to get it done. "I said go back to your desk, sir."

Dean was momentarily alarmed at the Dirty Harry attitude until he noted Sam's finger was carefully resting on the trigger guard and not the trigger itself. Sam's expression was set in stone and Dean could tell that he was desperate to get away from here.

"You don't understand," the man said, his eyes once again glued to the gun. "I… you…"

"_What_?" Sam asked in exasperation.

"I need you to shoot me, too."

* * *

_More soon…_


	2. Chapter 2

**Purposes Mistook**

Summary: Sam and Dean finish a hunt only to find there was a witness to the showdown, a witness who makes a demand of his own…

_I'm very sorry for the delay. I'd have had this up earlier, but I've been all atwitter for most of the day. My novel _Stone Pillow_ went up at Amazon(dot)com this morning. It's not Sam and Dean, or anything Oprah would look at. It has a dashing, wounded hero, a plucky heroine, and a relentless villain. Adventure ensues. Because I love a good adventure! If my style suits you, I'd love for you to take a look._

_Now where were we…_

"I need you to shoot me, too."

**Chapter Two**

* * *

Dean immediately brought his gun to bear and aimed it at the man's heart. Sam backed up until he bumped into the door behind him, pale as a ghost, although he kept his gun aimed at the man as well. Dean silently vowed to take the shot if this was another werewolf. Sam _really_ didn't need to have to take out another one using the up-close-and-personal method.

"You're a werewolf?" Dean readied himself to fire.

The office worker blinked rapidly, taken aback. "What?"

"What. Are. You?"

"I'm… I'm a Pisces."

Sam jerked his gun away and Dean couldn't have agreed more. This guy wasn't a werewolf. He was a _moron_. Dean quickly tucked his gun back into his waistband. Threatening a guy who wasn't getting the message was one thing, but actually shooting him was something else.

"You want us to just shoot you? Are you nuts?" Dean asked, completely flabbergasted.

"Please… The bank's gonna take my house next week. My wife and I are both working, but we just can't make the payments anymore."

"So you want us to _kill_ you?" Sam demanded in astonishment.

"If I die in an office shooting, my wife will get the insurance money. She could pay off the house," the man said plainly.

"You just came up with this off the top of your head?" Dean shared a look with Sam who shook his head to say he was just as clueless.

"I… I was going to wreck the car, but there's always the chance I could live." The man frowned as if still puzzling through the problem. "It has to look like an accident or the insurance company won't pay. And… I don't want anyone else to get hurt."

"And your wife will be fine with you being murdered at the office?" Sam said angrily. "That won't hurt _her_?"

"She'll be safe," the man said flatly. "She'll have money and the house."

"I don't know." Dean raised an eyebrow. "Being homeless is doable for the non-schizophrenic crowd."

Sam shot him an angry look before turning back to the guy. "You're her husband. She needs _you_, not a house."

"But we'll lose everything. I can save her," the man insisted.

"You can't leave her like that! The only thing that will keep her safe is _you_, you idiot," Sam shouted.

Dean put his hand on Sam's arm trying to calm him. Sam was concussed, he'd just had to shoot a werewolf which had no doubt brought up a few lingering issues, and this guy had just unintentionally hit about every freaking button Sam had. Sam was mad all right, but not at this guy. Sam was mad at Dean and the deal, mad at himself, mad at the world.

"What is it to you?" the man snapped back furiously. "You just killed Marvin. What's one more? Don't you need to kill the witnesses anyway?"

"Marvin had to go," Dean said. "We don't off civilians."

"You're… you're hired killers?" The man reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. "Take it. Take it all. Use the cash, the cards, whatever."

Sam made a sound of disgust and began to turn away. The man lunged and caught his gun. Sam gasped and turned back, refusing to relinquish it. "What do you think you're doing?"

"What I have to," the man said through clenched teeth, still grappling with Sam for control of the gun.

And that was all it took. No slow motion. No hesitation. No horrific sensation of time grinding to a halt. The gun fired and a blood red stain spread across the man's chest.

"No. No, no, no." Sam dropped the gun and caught the man as he fell. Dean leapt forward and helped ease him to the ground.

"Crazy, sonuva-" Dean cut himself off, the ugly gasping sounds the dying man was making unbelievably loud.

"Dean, call 911. Hurry!" Sam ordered, looking up at him, begging him to fix it. They were the same eyes that had pleaded for him to fix every disaster since Sam was a two year old with a skinned knee, and every instinct Dean had told him to move heaven and earth to make it happen. But there was no fixing this. The shot had hit the man's heart and the rounds they'd been carrying were specifically made for blowing a werewolf's heart to pieces. It would do exactly the same to a poor, suicidal office drone.

"Sam, there's nothing-"

"Dean, I shot him!" Sam shouted, and then his face seemed to crumble. "I can't… Dean, I can't…"

Dean knelt in front of Sam who was still holding the man in his arms. His brother's cheeks were streaked with tears, but as Dean watched, Sam's expression went from lost to almost painfully blank, shutting everything down. Dean put his hand on Sam's shoulder, not sure what to say as he watched his brother fight to keep it together. "The guy was nuts. This isn't your fault, man."

"Dean, how many things can happen that aren't my fault before it _is_ my fault?"

"Nothing's your fault until I say so," Dean replied hotly. "Understand me?" Sam just looked at him in disbelief, then down as the man's gasping breathing began to die away. "Sammy? You hearing me?" Sam nodded distantly, but Dean knew he wasn't really listening.

Dean sighed in resignation. He was pretty certain the guy was dead, but just to make sure he checked for a pulse. Not so much as a flutter. Dean reached down and picked up the man's wallet where it had fallen when he'd made a grab for the gun. "Joshua Calvert." Dean thumbed through the rest of the wallet. Credit cards, various pieces of ID, insurance cards, discount cards for gas, a grocery store, a drug store. More normal than normal. Except he'd used Sam to kill him. Which was something Dean just couldn't forgive and he had to tamp down the urge to kick the dead man. Sam needed more weight on his shoulders like Dean needed to make another deal.

Dean turned his head hearing a sound in the distance. "Sirens, Sam. We've got to go."

Sam looked up at him. "We can't leave him here. He's… human. And I…"

"He wanted to be left." Dean very purposefully took the man away from Sam and set him on the floor. "Up," Dean ordered. "We can't stay here."

Sam nodded. He stood, his expression hardening, a flash of anger appearing as he looked back down at the dead man. Sam reached down and picked up the gun he'd dropped. For half a second he just looked at it and Dean wasn't sure what he was thinking, was afraid to ask. Sam's eyes shifted back to the dead guy, and again Dean saw that flash of anger. Finally, Sam tucked his gun away and turned toward the stairwell without a word.

Dean shook his head and followed. "Great. Just great."

* * *

_More soon…_


	3. Chapter 3

**Purposes Mistook**

Summary: Sam and Dean finish a hunt only to find there was a witness to the showdown, a witness who makes a demand of his own…

_Poor Sam… Somehow both of our boys just always seem to get the short end of the stick. But we finally get a new episode tonight! Woohoo!_

**Chapter Three**

* * *

Sam lay on his back staring at the motel room ceiling. The little red light on the smoke detector was blinking and the bathroom sink was leaking. _Plink, plink. Blink. Plink, plink. Blink._ They were nearly perfectly timed and it was really starting to annoy him. The swirls in the plaster on the ceiling were bothering him too. They were in a swoosh pattern that was sort of like a series of rainbows. What did the ceiling have to be so freaking happy about? It was permanently stuck in a room that plinked and blinked and probably saw all kinds of things that Sam didn't even want to think about.

Which seemed to be the theme of his night. He just couldn't seem to get his brain to shut up.

Sam wasn't responsible for the man's death. He knew it. He really did. It didn't change the fact that the man had used Sam to kill himself. Instead of taking care of his own problems, the world-class jerk had used Sam to do the dirty work.

Sam was seriously tired of being used to do other people's dirty work. He was tired of being used, period. It was one of the biggest reasons why he'd left the hunting life in the first place and gone to Stanford. His dad had been using him to fight a war. Sam hadn't felt like a son. He'd been another body, another soldier in the fight against the evil that had killed his mother.

The problem was that the frontlines were no different than the home front had been. Ghosts, demons… they all just loved to use him to do their dirty little deeds. Dr. Ellicott at the asylum, Meg… each using him to hurt the people he cared about most. Yellow Eyes had planned since Sam was six months old to use him to lead the Army of Darkness. He'd used Sam to death. Literally.

And then there was Dean. _Desperate, sloppy, needy Dean._ Who used Sam to keep himself sane. Who used Sam to keep himself grounded. Who used Sam because he couldn't bear to be alone. Sam felt the weight of it. He felt the full burden of that need, that responsibility.

Unlike the others though, Dean's reliance on him was an acceptable burden. Sam wouldn't say it was easy. Nothing about their lives was easy. Sometimes he wanted to kick Dean into the next time zone. No, it wasn't easy, but it was acceptable. It was necessary. It was even comforting in a way. Dean was always there, weighing on his mind.

It worked both ways, too. Sam used Dean to keep him sane when times got tough. Dean's sense of humor, his light-heartedness, or at least his ability to brush things off that they couldn't do anything about, his ruthlessness in the face of evil, his kindness for its victims… Sam used them, clung to them when he didn't think he could carry on anymore. They relied on each other, used each other's strengths to keep going. Sam would do anything for Dean and Dean felt the exact same way. He _had_ given everything for him. It wasn't really even fair to call what they shared being used. Sam couldn't really call something a burden when it was so willingly, so overwhelmingly, given and reciprocated.

But not the jerk from the office. He'd used Sam to kill him because he was too cowardly to do the deed himself. To top that off, he'd chosen to leave his wife alone, thinking money was what she really needed. His wife would have her house, but no husband to share it with. How was that all right?

Sam had tried not to be angry with Dean. He really had. But Dean's deal was going to leave him alone. Sam would have a life, a car, a job, but no brother to share it with.

Sam didn't suppose he really had a right to be angry. Sam's death had left Dean alone and he just hadn't been able to handle it. Sam wasn't really handling the prospect of his brother's death any better. Thanks to the Trickster he knew he _hadn't_ handled it any better and probably wouldn't again.

Logical or not, it didn't stop him from being angry at Dean for making the deal in the first place. After all the mess their dad's deal had caused, Dean had made another one and was leaving Sam alone to make whatever pathetic excuse for a life he could without him.

"Hey, Sam?"

Sam turned his head toward Dean's bed though he couldn't really see him in the dark. "Yeah?"

"You managed to work this around to bein' pissed off at me yet?"

Sam could hear the smile in Dean's voice and it just reminded him in every painful way possible of why he was going to miss his brother. "Yup."

"Good. Thought it was taking a little longer than usual."

Sam closed his eyes. "I'm not really mad, Dean. I'm frustrated."

"Fine." Dean snorted. "You be frustrated. I'll stick with being pissed off."

"Anything in particular today?" Sam was going to miss this. He was going to miss being able to just sit and talk to the one person who knew him almost as well as he knew himself.

"Death and Hell are pretty much runnin' neck and neck right now," Dean said casually.

Sam sighed and opened his eyes. They immediately widened and he scrambled backwards, running into the headboard. Joshua Calvert was standing at the foot of the bed staring at him.

"Dean!"

"Holy crap!"

Sam heard Dean throw the covers back and fling himself out of his bed on the other side. Two seconds later a deafening shotgun blast filled the little room and the ghost disappeared in a cloud of rock salt.

Sam reached a hand, shaking from the sudden adrenalin rush, toward the lamp and turned it on to see Dean kneeling beside his duffel bag, his favorite sawed-off shotgun in his hands aiming toward the end of the bed where the ghost had been standing.

"Just once!" Dean said, angrily getting to his feet, "just _once_, could somebody freakin' stay dead!" He grabbed his keys off the table by the door, threw open the motel room door and stomped outside although he was only wearing a t-shirt and boxers. Sam heard the trunk open and then almost immediately close before Dean stomped back into the room.

He kicked the door closed with his heel, tore the top off the canister and poured a thick line of salt in front of the door and then across the window sill, muttering to himself the entire time.

"Get dressed!" he snapped, already pulling on his jeans.

"What?" Sam was still stunned, sitting close to the headboard.

"I just fired a friggin' shotgun in a full motel, Sam. I'm pretty sure somebody's gonna call the cops. We've only got a couple of minutes to get out of here before they show up to make sure we haven't murdered someone."

Realizing his brother was right, Sam flew into motion, dragging on a pair of jeans and a shirt before jamming everything else he owned back into his duffel bag. Dean was doing the same, finishing first since he had a slight head start. He stopped to stand by the door and wait on Sam. He looked through the peephole and Sam heard him start muttering again.

"Dean?"

"Hurry up," Dean ordered. He set down the bag he was carrying long enough to reload his shotgun.

Sam came to stand behind him and took one last look around the room to make sure they hadn't left anything. If they had they'd just have to replace it. Sam could hear the sound of sirens in the distance.

"Ready?" Dean asked.

"Yeah," Sam answered slightly winded.

"Good. Back up a bit, I need some elbow room."

Sam frowned in confusion, but did as his brother asked. Dean looked through the peephole once again and shook his head, as if in disbelief.

Dean backed up, threw the door open and brought his shotgun up. Sam had only a second to see that the office worker's ghost was standing right outside their door beyond the salt.

Dean growled. "Josh, you are really starting to piss me off." He fired and then stepped forward, the ghost dissipating just as Dean crossed the threshold. "Come on, Sam."

"Where are we going?"

"The morgue."

* * *

_More soon…_


	4. Chapter 4

**Purposes Mistook**

Summary: Sam and Dean finish a hunt only to find there was a witness to the showdown, a witness who makes a demand of his own…

_Hope y'all are enjoying this. I appreciate each and every review._

_Okey dokey… We're off to the morgue…_

**Chapter Four**

* * *

Sam straightened his tie as he and Dean walked into the hospital side by side. Sam hated changing in gas station bathrooms. He always felt rumpled and a little grimy afterwards.

They stopped at the first desk they came to and asked for the morgue. When the woman raised her eyebrows, they each flashed an FBI badge and the woman went nearly bug-eyed.

"You're here about the shooting? Trudy said…" The woman cleared her throat nervously. "Do you know what happened?"

"We're not at liberty to talk about the case at this time," Sam answered formally, barely registering how easy it was these days to pull on the dour FBI persona. Dean wasn't having any trouble either. He was still glowering, annoyed at having his sleep interrupted.

"The morgue is down the hall." She pointed. "Take the first left, then the third right."

"Thank you," Sam said and they headed down the hall. "What exactly are we planning to do?"

"I plan on setting his sorry ass on fire, sooner rather than later," Dean said grouchily. "I don't care what he thinks he needs to do, I don't care what he wants, I don't care if he's pissed off, or Little Mary Freakin' Sunshine. We don't have time for this."

Sam just nodded. The deal was breathing down their necks, so close now Sam could almost feel it. The coming deadline put a new perspective on every last minute of the day, on every second spent on something that wasn't a solution to the impending disaster.

"And on top of that," Dean continued ranting, "the guy just ticks me off in general. Making you whack him? You don't do that to someone else, stranger or not. You don't put that on somebody else's shoulders just because you can't do it yourself."

Sam cast a sidelong look at his brother. _You don't do that. You don't lay that kinda crap on your kids_. Their dad had made a deal to save Dean at least partially because someone had to be around to take care of Sam when he went bad. Sam couldn't help but wonder if their dad had doubted he could do it, but believed his number one soldier who _always_ followed orders would. Sam wasn't the only one their father had used to his own ends.

Dean frowned. "What?"

"Nothing."

"Quit lookin' at me like that." Dean stopped suddenly and turned to face him. "I saw what that guy did to you. I saw your _face_, Sam," he said, misunderstanding Sam's hesitation. "If he wasn't already dead, I could kill him myself for what he did." Just as quickly as Dean had stopped, he turned and resumed his determined steps toward the morgue leaving Sam nearly open-mouthed in his wake. "As a matter of fact, since he's only mostly dead, I might still get my wish. Move it, Agent Johnson," Dean said, not bothering to look back.

Sam just shook his head and followed. His head was hurting like a jackhammer had been at it and Dean's attitude, though typical, never ceased to surprise Sam. His over-protective bloodthirstiness was almost… comforting… in a Dean-like way.

They stopped outside the oversized door labeled Morgue and looked around. There was no attendant in sight, but this was a small rural hospital. They probably just locked the place up.

"No cops," Dean murmured.

"Probably still at the scene trying to figure out what happened," Sam replied.

"Still… this is probably the first murder they've had in years." Dean eyes snapped up to Sam worriedly. "Not that…"

"It's ok," Sam said, though his mouth was suddenly dry. "I know what happened, man."

Sam doubted he would ever forget it. He could still feel the man's finger sliding over his, forcing the trigger back, still feel the gun recoil, see the stunned look on the man's face as he realized that his idiotic plan had worked and he was about to die. Sam had been used to kill someone. Again. The pathetic thing was that when Meg had used him to kill Steve Wandell, that had at least made a sick sort of sense. She had used him to kill a soldier. Wandell would have known that he was in the middle of a war and that if nothing else he was fighting, and dying, on the side of right.

Joshua Calvert had died for… what? A house? Some money? Sam supposed if he was being generous he could say he'd died for his wife, but Sam was pretty sure that was a truckload of crap. You protected your loved ones through hard times by living through them at their side. Dean was being forced to leave. Calvert had _chosen_ to leave his wife alone. Though in a way, by making the deal, Dean had made the same decision. His exit was just delayed by a year, a prolonged suicide.

Dean sighed loudly. "Dude, if you don't quit working everything back around to bein' pissed at me, I'm gonna go find another motel and let you deal with this."

"How do you know I'm mad?" Sam asked. Dean wasn't even looking at him.

"Cause you're boring a hole in the back of my head you're looking at me so hard." Dean turned around and smirked. "That and I can hear you grinding your teeth at twenty paces. It had that distinctive _Dean is an idiot_ ring to it."

Dean wasn't an idiot. He was the sacrificial lamb a demon had taken in order to save Sam. The demons had to have jumped at the chance. Sam was the Chosen One, after all. He had to be in play to lead the Army of Evil. They'd get their future leader back where he was supposed to be and they'd get Dean wrapped up like a Christmas package under the tree just waiting to be opened.

"Whoa," Dean said suddenly. "Dude, your face is gonna stick like that. You think I want that to be the last thing I see?"

"That's not funny," Sam said angrily.

Dean's face became stony. "No, it's not. None of this is funny. So focus, will ya? Dead guy? Showed up at the motel and we want to send him off ASAP?"

"Right." Sam nodded and quickly wished he hadn't. Stupid werewolf had used a flashlight to try and take him out. A mag-light was surprisingly solid.

"You ok?" Dean asked, his voice suddenly gentler. Sam doubted he was just asking about his head.

"Yeah." Sam rubbed his eyes wearily.

"Don't barf," Dean suggested. "Ruins the FBI vibe. Try and look like you've got a stick up your butt."

Sam let his hand fall back to his side and glared.

Dean grinned. "See? You've got it already." He turned back and pushed on the door, surprised when it swung open easily. "Not locked."

Sam and Dean walked into the morgue, the sounds of the hospital immediately hushed as the heavy door closed behind them. They rounded the corner of a cement block wall meant to keep prying eyes from seeing anything they shouldn't to find a woman sitting on a stool, her back to them. A man wearing hospital scrubs stood behind her, his hands on her shoulders, awkwardly trying to comfort the woman who was crying quietly. In front of them was a table with a body bag sitting atop it.

Dean coughed to get their attention and the man immediately whipped around. "You shouldn't be in here."

Sam and Dean both produced their badges again. "If that is Mrs. Calvert, I seriously doubt she is supposed to be here either before the coroner is finished," Dean replied.

The man shifted uncomfortably. "We haven't touched anything. Bert let me borrow his key so she could… So we…"

The woman stood and turned toward them, wiping her tear-stained face. She was wearing nurse's scrubs and a hospital ID. "I was working upstairs when they brought him in," she said tiredly. "I… I just wanted to sit with him… for a bit, before…" Mrs. Calvert's face crumbled as she once again dissolved into tears. The man standing beside her put his arm around her and she turned toward him, hiding her face against his chest. The man hugged her close and simply let her cry.

Sam felt light-headed, completely unsure what to say in the face of the woman's grief. He knew what it was like to have a loved one taken so abruptly. He knew what it felt like to have violence rip them away and to feel so unbelievably helpless in its wake.

This, however, was beyond different. Sam had been the instrument of this disaster. If they hadn't been there… If they'd managed to corner the werewolf earlier… If they'd been faster to leave or if he'd gotten the gun away, aimed away… _Something_.

Mrs. Calvert seemed to gather herself and eased away from her companion.

"We're very sorry for your loss," Sam said, feeling like he was strangling. Dean didn't touch him, but moved fractionally closer to his side, a tacit show of support.

"Thank you," she managed to whisper.

"Come on, Trudy. Let me take you home," the man said quietly.

"And you are?" Dean asked.

"Dr. Will Standish. I work in the ER," the man replied, but he was barely paying them any attention. He still had one arm around Mrs. Calvert and all of his attention was for her.

Sam and Dean shared a look. Dr. Standish seemed awfully close for a man who wasn't her husband.

Apparently they weren't the only ones who thought so. The ghost appeared directly in front of the couple flickering wildly. Mrs. Calvert gasped while her companion simply stood frozen in place.

"Get back!" Sam shouted.

The ghost lashed out and Will went flying, crashing into the metal table behind him where the body was still lying. The ghost disappeared and then reappeared, standing over the stunned man who had fallen to the floor. Dean pulled his sawed-off shotgun out of the case he'd been carrying and fired. The ghost dissolved in a cloud of rock salt.

"What… what was that?" Mrs. Calvert asked, looking like she was about to pass out.

"You two need to leave." Dean stepped forward and took the woman by her arm. Sam did the same for Dr. Standish helping him off the floor and then pulling him toward the door.

"But… what…" Standish was still half-stunned from the blow he'd taken, but he was coming around quickly. "That looked like Josh!"

"There's no time to explain!" Dean snapped. He momentarily let go of Mrs. Calvert so that he could open the door. He tugged, but it didn't open. "Does this door lock automatically?" Dean asked, trying again and putting all of his weight into it.

"No," Standish said, fumbling in his pocket for the key. "Here, let me."

Dean stepped back and faced the room, keeping an eye out while reloading from the shells he'd squirreled away in his suit coat. "Hurry."

Standish turned the key, a huge ancient-looking thing and then pulled on the door. Which didn't budge. Sam stepped forward and they both pulled on it. Nothing.

"We're locked in," Sam said unnecessarily as he and the other man stepped back.

Sam and Dean shared a glance. This was so not good.

"Everyone, get behind me," Dean ordered as he brought his shotgun up, sweeping it left and right to cover the room. "First person that sees Josh, yell boo."

* * *

_More soon… maybe…_


	5. Chapter 5

**Purposes Mistook**

Summary: Sam and Dean finish a hunt only to find there was a witness to the showdown, a witness who makes a demand of his own…

_Last chapter, the boys were locked in a morgue with a ghost…_

**Chapter Five**

* * *

Out of the corner of his eye, Dean saw Sam push the man and woman behind him, their backs against the door. Sam pulled his own gun and stood slightly behind him as well. He was carrying iron rounds. They weren't as safe as the rock salt to use in a confined space like this, which was why Dean had point.

"What is going on?" Standish demanded.

"We have a small problem," Dean answered, still scanning the room.

"But… that looked like Josh," the man said, frightened and bewildered.

"Ok," Dean admitted, "we have a big problem. A big, dead problem."

"Dean," Sam tried to reel him in.

"Sam, they've seen him and we're locked in here. I've had no sleep and I'm in no mood. You're going to have to tell them something."

Dean continued to slowly sweep Marigold left and right, ready for any signs of Josh making another appearance. It felt good to have the sawed-off shotgun back in action with him. He and Sam had spent so much time fighting demons lately, that he and Marigold just didn't get the quality time they used to when chasing ghosts was their main racket. Dean had missed her.

"Dean, two o'clock," Sam called.

Dean had seen it too. He instinctively corrected his aim and fired. Dean felt the familiar recoil of the shotgun and Josh once again disappeared in a cloud of rock salt. "Persistent little runt."

"What is going _on_?" the woman behind him demanded, her voice high and heading toward hysteria.

"Your husband just won't take no for an answer," Dean said while reloading. "Sam, try the door again." He heard some shuffling behind him.

"Won't budge."

"Great." Dean sighed and brought Marigold back up.

"That looked like Josh. But that's _impossible_," Trudy said.

"Your husband's ghost has been following us," Sam informed her quietly. "He must have some unfinished business."

"Ghost?" Will snapped. "Are you kidding me?"

"You know what you saw," Sam said, using his most convincing tone. "Josh needs something and we need to figure it out fast."

"You two lunatics expect me to believe-"

"Will," Trudy said breathlessly. "I can't… Not now…"

Will immediately looked contrite. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." He once again put his arm around her shoulders and held her close to his side.

"I wish you guys wouldn't do that," Dean grumbled, turning toward them. "Just gonna tick him off."

Mrs. Calvert looked up at him. "What?"

Dean shifted uneasily. "You and Will… You, uh… look a little comfortable together for people who aren't married. Did Josh know about you guys?"

The woman immediately looked incensed. "Will and I are _friends_. That's all."

Dean just raised an eyebrow. "All right."

"My husband _died_ today and you think…" She appeared almost speechless with rage. "I married him for better or for worse. That was a promise before God and to Joshua," Trudy stated firmly. "I barely see him, _saw _him, anymore because that stupid boss of his always makes him stay late and yes, I'm lonely. That makes this the 'for worse', but that doesn't change the promise I made. I haven't so much as _held Will's hand_ before tonight."

The woman was directly in front of Dean by the time she finished, poking a finger into his chest, a picture of righteous indignation and for a moment, Dean could see why Josh had been willing to do anything for her. She was a fury, a beautiful, virtuous fury. And then she once again dissolved into tears and Will pulled her away from the nasty man making the insinuations.

"Well, I feel about two feet tall," Dean muttered, then looked up at Sam. "But I guess that's about normal." Dean scratched a hand through his hair, trying to think. "So if he's not mad about that, then what's his problem?"

Sam wasn't looking at him though. He was looking back into the room. "Dean, uhhh…"

Dean turned around and for a few seconds didn't see anything. And then he did. But he really wished he hadn't.

The body bag on the metal table was being unzipped from the _inside_. Dean could see a finger sticking out from the inside of the bag, forcing the zipper down.

"Well, there's something you don't see everyday."

"What do we do?" Sam asked. "He's… possessed himself."

Dean cleared his throat nervously. "I somehow doubt we're gonna get him to stand still so we can salt him."

The zipper stopped about a third of the way down and Josh sat up on the table. Trudy screamed and for once Dean briefly considered doing the exact same thing. He doubted Sam would ever let him live it down though. It wouldn't impress Marigold much either. Dean brought her up and fired. The salt banged into Josh's chest and the body crashed off the table onto the ground on the other side, its legs still tangled inside the body bag. Josh simply pulled himself forward to extricate himself from the bag and then stood up.

"That went well." Dean watched as Sam raised his gun to fire, hoping the iron rounds might do better, but only a second later, Dean knew they were in trouble. Sam's face… _Crap_. He was staring at the bullet wound on the guy's chest, still plainly visible against the rumpled dress shirt he was still wearing, although his tie had been removed at some point and the shirt was open.

Joshua looked straight at Sam. "Don't. Not this time."

Sam hesitated, the gun dipping slightly. Dean reached for the pistol he had tucked at his back. The ghost saw the movement, however, and with a sweep of his hand knocked him backward. He had just enough time to see Sam try to take aim before he too went flying. Dean felt his back connect with the metal cabinets behind him, followed by his head.

The next time he opened his eyes, he saw that Sam was lying in a crumpled pile next to him and Will looked to be in a similar state lying against the wall opposite the morgue door. Trudy was kneeling beside him, patting his cheek in an attempt to revive him. Joshua was standing over them.

"I heard him, Trudy. And I heard what _you_ said."

"What are you talking about?" the woman asked desperately.

"The house," Josh accused. "Will told you to sell the house and you agreed."

Trudy half-turned toward him, despair written on her features. "Josh… we got an offer on the house today… A good offer. We could have paid off the loan and... bought another house… a cheaper one." The woman began to sob loudly. "I was so happy and I wanted to tell you in person when you got home. But you worked late and then the hospital called to offer me some overtime if I wanted it. I didn't get to tell you before I left. And now…" She waved her hands awkwardly in his direction. "Now… It's all _useless_."

Joshua knelt in front of her, anger written on his features. "You're still going to sell the house?"

"Josh, I don't want to live there now." She turned so that she could look at him face to face. Joshua shifted too and Dean noticed the dead man had Sam's handgun.

"You'll have the insurance money," Joshua said. "But you're still going to sell the house we worked so hard for? You're going to listen to _him_?" He used the gun to point in Will's direction and Trudy gasped.

"Josh, please…" Trudy moved so that she was kneeling in between Will and Joshua. "He was just agreeing with me. I told him about the offer. I never saw you anymore because we were always working to make the payments. All for a _house_ and I _hated_ it…"

"Oh, Trudy, I didn't-"

"I missed you and now you're… you're…" Dead. She couldn't seem to get the word out. She stretched out a trembling hand to touch his face, but withdrew it uneasily.

Her husband shook his head. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean for you to see me this way." The dead man turned slightly and looked at Sam, then back toward her. "You should go, Trudy. Take Will and go. I don't have long and I have something to do before I go."

Mrs. Calvert stood and helped a barely conscious Will to his feet. "Go," Joshua urged when she paused and looked back.

The door opened easily for her and she and Will disappeared down the corridor. Joshua walked toward Sam and Dean and sat down cross-legged in front of Sam.

Dean glanced toward Marigold who was sitting several feet away where she'd fallen when she'd been knocked out of his hands. The ghost saw where he was looking and smiled sadly. "Here." He handed Sam's gun to Dean, butt first.

Dean didn't hesitate. He snatched the gun out of his hand and aimed it at the man's head. "Get back."

"I won't hurt you," the man said, his pale face solemn, "either of you."

"I said get back," Dean ordered again. He trusted ghosts about as much as he trusted women he just happened to meet at crossroads. He'd learned both lessons the hard way.

"As you wish." The man used his hands to lift himself completely off the ground and scoot back a couple of feet, still sitting cross-legged. Apparently being dead made even a pencil-pusher freakishly strong.

Gun still carefully aimed at the Ghost of Paperwork Past, Dean moved closer to Sam who was sitting slumped back against the cabinets. "Sammy?"

Sam barely moved, turning his head slightly toward the sound of Dean's voice. Sam had already been working through a concussion. He hadn't needed another blow to the head. Dean was torn between keeping an eye on Josh and looking after Sam.

"Please, put the gun down and see to him," Joshua said. "I won't hurt you and I need to speak to your brother."

Dean eyed the ghost, who had yet to move a muscle, and finally decided to take the chance. He put the gun on the ground and knelt beside Sam.

"Sammy?" Dean took his brother's face in his hands and forced it upright. The sight of Sam slumped forward, chin resting on his chest was more than Dean could stomach. To the day he died, he would remember kneeling in the mud, fighting gravity as Sam slumped forward, his head drooping as his muscles relaxed in death. "Sam, talk to me. You hit your head again?"

"Dean?" It was muffled. Sam's eyes fluttered open and then closed again.

"Stay with me, man. The dead guy needs to talk to you." That got Sam's attention. He opened his eyes again, blinking against the overhead lights. About two seconds later he looked like he was going to throw up. "Don't you dare," Dean ordered. "You already barfed on me once this week and that was once too many." Sam still looked seriously green around the gills and Dean hurriedly glanced around for something to use.

"Sam," the ghost said to draw his attention.

Sam looked past Dean to Joshua who was still sitting in the same place he had been. He blinked several times as if trying to get the picture to focus. "Wh-what do you want?"

"I didn't come here for my wife," the dead man informed them. "She knows I love her and will forgive my stupidity."

For a moment, there was a flicker, as if the ghost was an overlay on his own body and once again Sam looked like he was going to hurl. He swallowed heavily and closed his eyes. "Why then?"

"I'm here to talk to you."

Sam's eyes flew back open. "Me?"

Joshua nodded. "I need you to forgive me. I didn't know what I was asking."

"I'm sorry?" Sam said, frowning in confusion.

"I thought you were murderers. I didn't know who you were."

"And you know us now?" Dean snapped angrily.

"You offer protection and receive only more pain and darkness in return."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "Sounds kinda depressing when you say it like that."

Joshua looked directly at Sam. "You were there to save me and it was unforgivable to ask you to take my life. A great many of my mistakes are very clear now, but what I did to you was perhaps the most selfish. You are already burdened and I added to it needlessly. I'm sorry, Sam."

Sam just stared at him. Dean wasn't sure if it was because of the nausea, the general confusion, or because he had a dead body sitting in front of him asking for forgiveness. Maybe all three.

"It's ok," Sam finally said.

Joshua shook his head sadly. "It's not, but thank you for saying so." As if the plug had been pulled, Joshua flickered one last time, then his head drooped forward and his body slumped slightly, his hands in his lap, as if the man had fallen asleep sitting up.

Dean sat back beside Sam, shoulder to shoulder, both of them staring at the dead guy, now devoid of life, still sitting cross-legged in front of them. Dean grinned. He couldn't help it. "I can't wait to see how the coroner explains this."

* * *

_The wrap-up tomorrow…_


	6. Chapter 6

**Purposes Mistook**

Summary: Sam and Dean finish a hunt only to find there was a witness to the showdown, a witness who makes a demand of his own…

_Righto… Here you have it all finished up. I've done everything I can think of to wring a review out of y'all and I'm grateful for every last one of them. Hope you enjoyed this one. This whole story was a very lame excuse to write a certain scene in this chapter…_

**Chapter Six**

* * *

Dean pulled up in front of the motel room door and put the car in park. He'd gotten them out of the hospital with a minimum of fuss, leaving just as they heard a flurry of people heading toward the morgue. Mrs. Calvert had probably run for help and security or the police had come running. Dean had simply headed the other way with a very groggy brother in tow.

"How you doin'?" Dean asked quietly, watching as Sam put his arm across his eyes to block the lights from the motel shining into the car.

"My brain feels like it's about to liquefy and a dead guy just apologized for making me shoot him," Sam muttered. "I feel great."

"Glad to see your sense of humor is still non-existent." Dean gingerly shifted against the seat, mindful of his back. He'd caught a handle or something when the ghost had thrown him against the cabinets. His head wasn't doing him any favors either. Then again, a werewolf hadn't already tried to bash his head in, so Sam had priority right now.

Dean sighed and closed his eyes. Freaking ghost had tried to break him in half and knocked Sam senseless so it could apologize for treating Sam badly. Ghost logic. Had to love it.

Of course, the guy had been working with some pretty screwy logic even before he was dead. He'd killed himself so his wife would have the insurance money. She'd have a house, but no husband. Somehow, Dean just didn't think that was a good deal. In fact it was one of the stupidest things he could think of. Dean had so little time left, just days. Life, the time he had left with Sam, it was all there was. It was everything. It was all he would have to hold onto when… when there wasn't anything else to hold onto. And Joshua had given it all away for his wife to have a house. He'd given away all the days he would have had with his wife.

Dean had paid everything to save his brother. He hadn't done it to save their stuff. Because when you were dead, a house… at the end of the day it was all just crap that someone else had to figure out what to do with. It wasn't important.

_Your car? That's Dad's. Your favorite leather jacket? Dad's. Your music? Dad's._ But none of that was going to matter. It was going to be left behind. It wasn't going to mean a single thing when Dean was gone. The only thing that his dad had given him that would matter was also almost the very first thing he'd been given. Sam.

_Do you even have an original thought?_ Maybe… maybe not. His dad had made a deal. So had Dean. But his dad had saved him so he could give his final order, to take out Sam if he went bad. Dean hadn't given any thought at all to whether or not Sam would go bad. All he'd been able to think about was _saving_ Sam, keeping Sam alive, no matter what.

Maybe that was the difference. He and his dad were both hunters. But his dad had been obsessed with hunting anything evil that crossed his path. If that included Sam at some point then so be it. Dean protected anyone that crossed his path from whatever evil was hunting them. That most definitely included Sam. Dean had to save his brother because killing him at some point was so not an option.

Still, the end result was the same. A deal was a deal, and dead was dead. Maybe he and his dad were both obsessed bastards. _Saving people, hunting things…family business._

Dean just couldn't fathom the stupidity of dying to save their _stuff_. Dean hadn't made the deal so Sam could keep the Impala. Of course, if the jerk _didn't_ take care of the Impala Dean was going to come back and beat the living crap out of him. But he knew Sam would. It was their home. Most people mowed the grass, planted shrubs, bought a new sofa when theirs wore out. Winchesters changed the oil, patched the paint when she got scratched, took care of the brakes when they wore out.

"We gonna go in anytime soon?" Sam asked.

"You feel like movin'?" Dean shot back.

"Not so much," Sam said wearily. "But a bed would be nice."

"Sammy, Sammy," Dean shook his aching head, "always asking for the fancy stuff like food and a place to sleep."

"You know what they say." Sam grinned weakly. "The three basic needs. Food, firearms and shelter."

"Sick puppy." Dean felt an answering grin spread across his face. "You _are_ turning into me."

Sam snorted and then grimaced as his head objected. "I haven't started naming the guns yet, at least."

Dean felt his throat constrict tightly. What was he going to do without Sam? How was he going to stay anywhere close to sane? The answer, of course, was that he wasn't. He was going to have to try though. Ruby had managed to hold onto some of her humanity. Maybe Dean could too. Maybe memories of Sam would help him hold on. Dean was keenly aware, however, that he was leaving Sam in the same fix he was, minus the actual Hell part. He was leaving Sam alone to fend for himself, which was almost as worrisome a prospect.

Dean set his hand on the shotgun sitting beside him on the seat. "You know, uh…" He cleared his throat nervously. "Once the deal's up… I mean…"

Sam turned toward him, already frowning. He looked at Marigold and then back up at Dean. "What?"

"It's just… you have to take good care of her for me. Salt and guns weren't really meant to go together." Dean was the one who normally cleaned the guns between hunts. It was a soothing, but also necessary ritual. Marigold always got special attention because, one, a jammed shotgun often meant a dead hunter and, two, she'd saved his ass more times than he could count. She meant a lot to him, in a twisted, firearms-are-the-closest-things-I-have-to-friends sort of way. But Marigold wasn't what this was really about.

"Dean, you're not-"

Dean cut him off, his gaze locked with Sam's over the shotgun. "She gets left by herself, no one to take care of her, I don't know what might happen." Sam swallowed heavily, understanding dawning that they weren't really talking about a gun. "She's special and I don't want her fallin' apart just cause I'm not there to see to her. She's got a lot of life in her yet and work to do."

"Dean…"

"Promise me, Sammy." It was a demand, his tone all steel.

"Yeah," Sam finally managed. "Yeah."

Dean grinned, his eyes finally releasing his brother. "And take her to a movie every once in a while. She likes chick flicks, so you guys should get along great. Nothing smutty though, she gets embarrassed."

Sam let out a bark of laughter that was too close to a sob for comfort. "Will do."

They both reached for their doors at the same time. They got out and simultaneously leaned against the car for support, grimacing in pain as they looked at each other over the Impala's top. Dean was the first to smile, followed by Sam. "Dude, we suck at this job."

"Come on. My head's killing me." Sam headed toward the room, while Dean went to the back of the car to get their bags. "Key?" Sam called.

Dean threw the room key to him and Sam caught it one handed. Dean opened the trunk and started gathering their belongings, hearing the room door squeak as Sam opened it.

"Dean, get the Colt."

Dean didn't hesitate. He dropped everything else, grabbed the Colt, slammed the trunk closed and came up behind Sam who was standing just inside the doorway. "What is it?" And then Dean caught it too. The smell. That rotten, sulfuric smell that meant they were about to be in a world of trouble.

Dean scanned the room and didn't see anything amiss. Two beds with ugly bedspreads, one nightstand in between with a remote permanently tacked to it. One table with two chairs. One low dresser with a TV sitting on it, also permanently attached.

"The bathroom door's closed," Sam said quietly.

"Demon's taking a potty break?" Dean asked incredulously.

Sam looked at him, his mouth quirking up on one side. "Did you just say potty?"

Dean blinked. "I… Shut up." He pursed his lips. "What's it doing in there?"

"Maybe it's not a demon?"

"Why don't you go look and see?"

Sam frowned. "You go look. With my luck it'll be some nasty demon baby wanting to eat me for lunch."

"Like my luck is so much better?" Dean asked incredulously. "I think our numbers are running pretty close there on the Whoops,-I-Ran-Into-the-Spawn-of-Satan scale."

"You've got the Colt," Sam shot back.

"You're the Darth Vader of the Evil Demon Empire. Go order it to smite itself."

Sam huffed in annoyance. The entire time they'd been talking they'd been inching closer to the bathroom door. As they approached the smell became more and more intense, intense enough that Dean was almost starting to feel light-headed.

"Why hasn't it come out?" Sam whispered. "We've made enough noise to wake the dead."

"It's busy peeing itself in fear?" Dean suggested. "It's in the right place." He stretched out a hand toward the doorknob.

Suddenly Sam slapped Dean's hand away. "Crap. Dean, we're morons. Don't open the door."

"Huh?"

"You hear that hissing?"

"Snake demon?"

Sam grabbed Dean and began pulling him back toward the outside door. "It's a gas leak. The whole building could blow."

Dean's head began to clear as they stepped out into the fresh air. Sam was already dialing 911 and telling them about the leak while walking toward the office to tell the clerk so he could warn the rest of the motel guests. A bit belatedly, Dean decided to put the Colt back in the trunk before people started coming out of their rooms and screaming about the gunman in the parking lot.

Dean got in the car and pulled it up in front of the motel office. Sam came out a few seconds later and slid into the passenger seat.

Sam beside him in the Impala. It was where they were both supposed to be. It felt like home. It _was_ home.

"Well," Dean asked, "you wanna try another motel or you wanna just drive?"

The sun was just starting to rise in the eastern sky and Sam smiled tiredly. He settled back into the seat and sighed in contentment. "Just drive."

Dean grinned and fished his sunglasses out of the glove compartment. "That I can do."

* * *

_Well, that's it. Hope you enjoyed it. Tried for a more upbeat ending on this one since I depressed the heck out of even myself with the last story. A very happy Season Finale to you all. I'm not going anywhere near another story until after the season's over. I'll let Kripke and company do their thing before I go mucking about in their business again. 'Til then!_


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